


There's magic here and magic's weird

by gloss



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics)
Genre: Animal Play, Community: kink_bingo, Consent Issues, F/F, Rough Sex, Telepathy, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 03:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life can be weird when you're space lesbians; weirder yet when one of you gets changed into a dragon.</p><p>I'm not kidding about the *animal* part. <a href="http://www.exitseraphim.net/glossings/images/comics/Quasar_3_DCP_0008.jpg">This is their canon.</a> Not animal play so much as cosmic, magicked bestiality. With telepathy and possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's magic here and magic's weird

**Author's Note:**

> For the **animal play** square on my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) [card](http://gloss.dreamwidth.org/60963.html?#cutid1). Title from Kristin Hersh, "[Shake](http://lyrics.wikia.com/Kristin_Hersh:Shake)".

When your girlfriend is a telepath, it can be hard to hide your thoughts.

Phyla, however, doesn't **want** to hide from Heather. It's Heather who is ducking away, curling up with her back to the fire, refusing to reply.

She has one wing drawn over her face, her tail wrapped all the way around her. Against the dark, unfamiliar sky, her body looks like a rocky outcropping, her spine jagged, ribs moving with slow breath.

Phyla leans against Heather's back and closes her eyes. \--Sweetheart? she thinks. —Heather?

There's no response.

The fire spits and sighs before her; her feet and calves are warm, but the rest of her, even with her cloak drawn tight, is chilled.

She turns her head to rest her cheek against Heather's hide. Her scales are cool and almost soft. Nothing like skin, but still comforting.

—Sweetheart? Please answer me.

—I'm right here, Heather thinks back at her.

Phyla purses her lips and opens her eyes. Heather might be here physically, but that is —

—even my body's a lie, Heather teeps, interrupting Phyla.

"No," Phyla says aloud, and crouches, then grasps the coracoid muscle of Heather's wing and drags herself upward. She straddles Heather's side, palms resting on her throat. "This is you, now. That's not a lie."

Heather lifts her large head and huffs impatiently. Steam curls out of her snout. —You're delusional.

"No! I'm –" Phyla pounds her fists on Heather's chest. So much muscle beneath the scales, it's like punching concrete. She slumps forward, arms around Heather's neck. "I'm not."

—You're young, and very kind, Heather teeps.

Now Phyla is the one who doesn't reply. She rolls her forehead back and forth, breathing in the chilly scent of Heather's body. The scales are larger on her neck, reticulated and slightly iridescent, even here in the dark.

—Phy?

Phyla looks up. Heather has twisted her head around and regards her with one unblinking eye, blacker than night and depthless.

She gives Heather a tight smile. She wants – she wants **Heather** , wants to share the cloak at night, kiss her dizzy, straddle her wide hips and push her face between her breasts. She wants to hear Heather's voice again, outside her mind, feel the rumble of her laughter and laugh at her shocked yelps when the bathing water's too cold.

Heather licks her snout with her long, black tongue, then nudges Phyla in the shoulder. Her nose is damp, a little warm, and it tickles. Phyla bats her away, so Heather does it again, more insistently.

Laughing, Phyla squirms down to the ground, dancing backward on her tiptoes, out of reach. Heather rises to her haunches and beats her wings against the sky. The breeze she kicks up makes Phyla cough amidst her laughter.

"You're beautiful!" she calls.

Heather's wings beat faster. Their noise punctuates her words. —No, no, no.

Phyla jumps, tries to get her arms around Heather's neck, but Heather rears back and Phyla stumbles, falls back in a sprawl. Still hiccuping with laughter, she can only lie there, admiring the sight.

Heather is magnificent. Always.

She's always gorgeous, human or dragon. She commands attention, grabs your gaze, rewards your love.

Phyla arches her back, throws out her arms, sends every thought she can muster at Heather. —Hear that? Hear me?

Heather's reply is a stutter of doubt and denial, not quite words, just pebbles and dust of disbelief.

She has tried everything. Nearly everything.

So she shrugs off her cloak and tugs loose her tunic.

—Phy, stop --

"No," she says, and tosses her tunic at Heather. "I want you." And, before Heather can think, she adds, more loudly, "Like this, yes."

Riding Heather is a dizzying experience; her thighs are aching, chafed, her knuckles numb from gripping the scutes at the base of Heather's neck, yet she's also wet **all the time** , the intimate friction of rubbing and grinding more intense than just about anything she's felt.

Heather's response to this wave of sensation is something like a black wing, a raven from Earth, shutting Phyla off.

Phyla, however, keeps sending out the images and feelings. Her bared chest prickles in the cold, her nipples gone hard, her chest rising and falling as she pants.

—Watch me, she teeps, and thumbs open the fastening on her pants to wriggle her hand inside. When her trousers get pushed down to her calves, she draws up her knees, planting her feet flat on the soft sand.

—Phy...

—Watch.

She wants to ride Heather forever, for as long as she's in this form. She wants to feel her immense body vibrating between her legs, feel her lips chap in the cold wind beaten up by her wings, bury her face in those wings, their leathery membranes stretching, molding, against her face. She wants to rub her cunt back and forth along the rocky line of Heather's spine, feel the delicate scales rise and prickle, grab her pubic hair, go slick and shining with her own wetness.

—Phy, I --. Heather's words falter. In their place, images flash like sheet lightning, cascading into Phyla's consciousness. Also like lightning, they burn and sizzle, light her up and take her over.

The dragon wants her. Wants her just here, on her back, wants to lap her open --

—So do it, Phyla responds and widens her legs. She opens her lips with thumb and index finger and lifts her hips.

The dragon is on her, swifter than thought. Its tongue is like a serpent itself, corded and stronger than a man, its forked end flickering out to taste before whipping back and forth.

Phyla calls out to the empty sky. The tongue lashes her clit, her hole, the tender, abraded inside of her thighs.

Heather stills. The dragon's need pulses behind her thoughts, unseen shapes that insist on making themselves felt, known, feared.

"Go ahead," Phyla tells it. "I love her."

The dragon would laugh at her, but Heather doesn't. Heather nudges her hip with her snout, rolls Phyla onto her front. —Baby, she thinks, —Oh, baby girl. Missed you.

"Yes," Phyla tells her, looking over her shoulder. She can see the white curve of her own hip, and then just the dragon. It fills the frame, hunched there, wings folded back, head dropped down, steam leaking from its nostrils, tongue flicking over its white teeth. "Heather."

—Brave, stupid girl. The dragon does not **like** language, but it can use it.

—Heather, Phyla replies, and Heather's thoughts shimmer back. —Please, I need --

—Phy...

It pushes her down, one claw on the center of her back, snout pushing between her thighs, lifting her up to her feet. Holds her there, precariously bent over, and lashes its tongue against her. Inside her, against her ass, down her crack, then, with astonishing finesse that sends her moaning up to her toes, **around** her clit.

It wants her. Heather wants her. Phyla can **feel** her need, restrained but shifting, anxious and restless.

She closes her fingers in the sand; no handholds, but she's trained for death, she can last through this.

The dragon's teeth are a wall, smooth as marble, as it pulls back its lips and pushes against her. Phyla moans and pushes back, raising her rump like another animal.

It grabs her hair with one claw and rises in the air, claw sliding down to grasp her throat. Phyla dangles several feet from the ground as it snuffles and rises.

—I can't stop it! Heather screams into her mind.

—It's you, Phyla tries to believe. —And I love you.

Heather likes it rough, Heather likes to tie her up and work her breasts with a steel comb until Phyla cries with pleasure. Heather likes to leave her like that and spend the rest of the day thinking the occasional obscene image at her.

Heather loves her. Heather loves power.

And Phyla can fight back. They both know that; that is their failsafe.

The claw is black, rough with dirt, and so tight around Heather's throat she has to fight to speak. "Fuck me," she gets out. "Sweetheart."

And it does. The Dragon of the Moon roars above her, lets out a stream of fire and steam, then punches forward its haunches. Its hemi-penis, the mirror image of its tongue, penetrates her ass and cunt in a single, shuddering thrust.

Phyla can't breathe. It's holding her, claws drawing blood, fucking her fast and jerky. She'll split apart, she'll rip herself open for this. She yowls, thrashes in its hold, tries to take even more.

This is Heather, in a new body. This is her beloved, tasting her fully, breaking her open, emptying her entirely.

Her orgasms flare and catch, beat faster than her heart, faster than the dragon's wings. She clenches and releases; all she can do is **feel**.

The bright weightlessness of ecstasy reduces her to these holes, this receiving, friction and tension that twists her hollow and weeping.

It moves inside her, through her. This must be what it is for Heather, alienated from the very core.

It drops her facedown to the sand. Crying out, its throat pulsing with the passage of sound, it rears up to spray her with its semen. The drops sizzle on her skin and raise small, spherical welts.

Phyla manages to roll herself in her cloak. She is shaking, blank, empty. Freezing.

Their fire is long extinguished.

Two moons the color of Earth water rise in the north.

And, then, a whisper, just a tendril of thought, more delicate than cobwebs. —Phy?

She can't move, but Phyla catches her breath. —I love you.

Heather's emotions wrap her more snugly than any cloak, just an endless billowing fabric of love and gratitude, shame that evaporates like dew in the morning warmth.

The dragon curls around her, a wing protectively over her small, human body.

"Sleep," Phyla tells her, and Heather tucks her snout under one forelimb and does.


End file.
